Page 75 of Every Step She Takes
I pause there. This is the problem. Knowing the suspects blinkers me. PCTracy wouldn’t write “none” after Tiana’s motive. She’s Isabella’s daughter. Surely she’d stand to gain something on her mother’s death. So would Jamison. PCTracy would dig deeper into their finances and their relationship with Isabella.
He can do that; I won’t.
Colt. Possibly not in California at the time of the murder but pretended he was. Knew I was here meeting Isabella. Did he know about my lunch plans with Isabella? Unknown. Motive? Yes.
A lawyer would laugh at that last part.Can you elaborate?I only know that I can come up with a half-dozen reasons why Colt might kill Isabella, and I’m sure there are more. They were married; he was chronically unfaithful and unhealthily dependent, and she was about to divorce him.
Mystery lover. Definitely in New York at time of murder. No one knows this (presumably) except me. Knew about my meeting with Isabella. Motive? Yes.
Again, I don’t have a clear motive; I only know that, as a secret lover, he would have at least one.
Others: business associates.
Personal assistant – Bess – knew I was in NYC, wasn’t happy about it and told Tiana.
Manager – Karla – knew and was cautiously ready to move forward with the “go public” plan.
If Karla knew, other staff likely did, too. Isabella would open her hotel door to any of them. I don’t know her current staff and business associates, though, and the more I think about it, the more I realize I know so little of Isabella’s life these days. There could be a dozen other people who belong on this list.
I’m tired, and panic is creeping in. Time to get to my sleeping spot and settle in for the night.
I sleep better than I expected. I feel oddly safer here than I did in my hotel room. The building hides me, and after an hour of lying awake but hearing no one on the nearby paths, I drift off.
When I wake to a touch on my cheek, I don’t jump up. It’s still dark, and I think only of the man who has shared my bed for hundreds of nights in the past two years. My eyelids flutter, and I stretch and smile up at a dark-haired figure.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
My smile freezes. It’s a flat American accent in a voice deeper than Marco’s musical contralto. I blink, and a man in his late thirties appears. A very average face with short hair and twinkling hazel eyes.
I scramble up, realizing where I am. I see his short hair and dark jacket with an insignia. Park police.
“I – I’m sorry,” I stammer. I’d come up with an excuse last night, but now my sleep-sodden brain can’t locate it. “I… I was with a friend and… we’d had a few drinks… and I just sat down for a minute…”
The flimsy excuse rolls out, and the guy nods sympathetically, as if it’s perfectly plausible.
“Is there a fine?” I say. “I’ll pay it if there is.”
He hems and haws, and I babble nonsense about how nothing like this has ever happened to me before, and I’m so embarrassed.
Even as he’s nodding, something pings deep inside me. The faintest warning chime.
I look up at him. Really look at him. He is terrifyingly bland. Average age. Average appearance. Clean-shaven. Well-dressed. Looks like a cop.
A memory flashes. A man in an alley, dressed in dark clothing, who’d seemed to be wearing a hat, which turned out to be a hoodie, and afterward, I’d wondered how I’d mistaken a guy in a hoodie for a cop.
Because he seemed like one. I might only have caught the briefest glimpse of a face, only enough to recall that it was a white guy. Something deeper, though, mistook him for a police officer because he had that look.
Clean-shaven. Well-groomed. Solid build.
Not a guy you’d mistake for an addict shooting up in an alley. Not a guy you’d mistake for a homeless person.
A guy you might mistake for a cop.
I look down at this man’s outfit – a dark jacket, dark jeans and sneakers. The insignia looks like something official, but I don’t recognize it. Then I look up at his face, and that alarm screeches.
I know you.
Oh, shit. I know you. I wouldn’t have thought I’d have recognized the guy who attacked me. But I do.
